Bramwell House, London, 1567

On a brisk September morn in the ninth year of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, I arrived at the Bramwell House, the London estate of Lady Bramwell, a widowed baroness and my new mistress. The fiery hue of the red brick facade made the house seem indestructible as it stood bold and vibrant in the late morning sunlight on the bank of the Thames. I counted eight chimney stacks and forty mullioned windows with diamond-shaped glass and mused whether I would find friend or foe within.

As I gazed at the gables and corner turrets, my sisters' sweet laughter reverberated in the cool breeze that swept across my cheeks. How they twirled and giggled with delight when my mother promised that, like me, when they reach the age of eighteen, they too will venture from home to work for a grand lady, acquiring superior housewifery skills that would help them snag a well-bred gentleman. Being the eldest girl, I was to be the exemplary model they would strive to emulate. 'Prove your worthiness to Lady Bramwell,' my mother advised me when I first received word I would work in her house. 'Perform your duties with due diligence and obedience.'

With a deep sigh of anticipation, I adjusted my cloak to sit squarely on my shoulders and pulled my gloves tight over my fingers. “Proceed steadily,” I muttered, and with calm deliberation, took that first step down the stony path that led to a magnificent marble portal.  An elderly footman with a dour expression answered the door.

“And you are?” he asked, leaning forward. His bulging eyes and slouched stance

reminded me of the toad my brother had recently snatched from the riverbank near our house, infuriating my mother that he dared bring the hideous creature into our Godly home.

“I am Isabella Whitney, the new maidservant, arrived from Nantwich,” I said clearly and with confidence.  

 “This way, Miss Whitney,” he said with a curt nod and not the slightest hint of a smile.

He led me into the long gallery on the first floor.  “Wait there,” he instructed, pointing to a stool with a curved seat that cupped my hips in a snug embrace.

My eyes followed him as he ascended a marble staircase. When he disappeared from view, I turned my attention to the silk tapestries that adorned the wall facing me. I wanted to rise and examine the stories told in the details of the exquisite needlework. Still, I resisted the impulse—a better first impression for Lady Bramwell to find me seated as directed. Shifting my gaze to the closed doors in the long gallery, I wondered which one might lead to the master library.

Cousin William’s breathless descriptions of the libraries in the country estates of his university friends left me eager to see one. ‘All splendid,’ he had said, ‘with domed ceilings painted gold and stain-glass windows that seemed to soar upward to the heavens. And with hundreds of books on myriad subjects that would satisfy the musings of the most curious mind.’

It was my fervent wish to continue reading the kinds of books I secretly read with William whilst he tutored me these last few years– ancient tales of history, adventure, and romance. I banished any nagging doubt that, like my mother, Lady Bramwell would limit my reading to holy scripture, conduct, and housewifery books. Every night hence from receiving her letter, I prayed that her husband, whilst alive, had amassed a book collection that equaled or rivaled William’s descriptions of those he had seen and that she would be receptive in allowing me to choose books from the library.

The approach of Lady Bramwell descending that glorious marble staircase jolted me from my thoughts. My fingers nervously straightened the few wrinkles in my russet-colored skirt, not of silk, yet made from the finest broadcloth.  As she drew near, I noticed she was slight in stature. Still, she cut an impressive figure clothed in silk, striking in her indigo-colored gown. Gold chains in concentric circles hung about her neck, and a bejeweled belt encircled her tiny waist. Her tawny-colored hair was swept up into a caul adorned with pearls. She was the vision of an aristocrat.

Rising to greet her, I said, “Your ladyship, I’m most fortunate that you have chosen me to be your maidservant for the year, to learn all that I can to one day be an exemplary mistress of my own house.”

She inclined her head as she observed me, appraising my worthiness to live and work in her household. Her eyes settled on my round hat, from which my mother very wisely had me remove its long purple feather and replace it with a small metal hatpin. ‘A less ostentatious accessory is better,’ she had advised.

With a tepid smile, Lady Bramwell sat on a cushioned stool beside a tapestry of a woman and two children. In the top corner was a blue and gold shield with a bear standing on its hind legs in attack mode, its curled red tongue jutting out of its mouth. It was likely the family’s coat of arms, for I knew that the bear represented a fierce protector of families. A choice place for her to sit to impress upon me the honor of working and living in such an eminent home.

“You have been blessed with fine weather, Isabella. I trust that it was a smooth journey with few delays?”

My ear took a moment to adjust to her clipped tone. “Aye, my lady. It was unhindered.”

“In his reference for you, Reverend Tisdale of your local parish said that you enjoy reading.”

Joyful anticipation coursed through my veins. This fine lady was about to thrust the door open to her deceased husband’s library and allow me entry. “Indeed, my lady, I enjoy reading.”

She drew her shoulders back. “You may then make use of my personal collection of books.”

No mention of her husband’s library. Still my curiosity was piqued. “Your personal collection, my lady?”

“I have a fine collection of books suitable for your training here. Books that will reinforce the virtues of womanhood and housewifery skills. What say you? Are they of interest to you?”

My disappointment caused a surge of resentment to well inside me. Nay, they are not. I have a hunger to read books that are deemed unsuitable for our sex. Do you really believe that women need men to control what we read because of our weak nature? That we will be unduly influenced by romantic tales, leading us astray from the path of virtue? I don’t believe that –no matter how vigorously the church fathers preach it from their pulpits.

 Zounds! I wish I had said that. Instead, inculcated by the teachings of my mother and father, I followed proper decorum. “And the reading of scripture is also important, my lady.”

Her smile became more inviting. “How is your hand with the needle, Isabella?”

The needle — how I hated it. Did she expect me to devote the little leisure time I would have to needlework and not read nor write poetry? I didn’t wince but smiled, “Quite competent, my lady.”

My mother stressed the importance of making an excellent first impression with Lady Bramwell. I was no fool. Had I given her any reason to think that I could be willful, she would have labeled me an eye servant, someone to watch with a hawkish gaze. For the moment, the whereabouts of the library would remain a mystery until an opportune moment presented itself.  Lady Bramwell beckoned me to follow her, and I did, in silence, up the staircase to another long gallery on the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, a young woman greeted me. “Isabella, I am Mistress Walden, cousin and gentlewoman to Lady Bramwell.”

Her winsome smile softened the sharp angular features of her face. The youthful radiance of her skin placed her age at not much older than my eighteen years. She wasn’t as ornately dressed as Lady Bramwell but wore a pleasing sunny yellow gown and a heart-shaped bonnet.

“I have instructed my gentlewoman to give you an orientation of the house,” Lady Bramwell said. “When you finish, we shall reconvene in the little chapel on the third floor to begin our afternoon recitation of the psalms. Do you have a favorite, Isabella?”

 I didn’t have to think long on my answer. “The psalms of praise and gratitude are my favorites.”

“Which one in particular?” Lady Bramwell insisted, her lips pressed tight - she was testing my piety.

I met her stare with an unwavering smile. “Psalm 100, my lady. ‘Shout for joy to the

Lord, all the earth. Worship the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful songs.’ I have a gift for words but not for composing music. Had I the skill, I would compose a ballad extolling the beauty of nature created by God’s hands.”

“What a lovely sentiment,” Mistress Walden said, with a sideward glance at Lady Bramwell.

There was a glint of approval in Lady Bramwell’s eyes. She crooked a finger for Mistress Walden to begin the house tour. I was relieved that my orientation was to be conducted by Mistress Walden, who had a far more pleasant demeanor than Lady Bramwell.

As we made our way down the long gallery, all the doors except one were closed. A garden mural on the wall opposite the opened door caught my eye, and I stopped to look. I poked my head into the room and smiled when I spied an open chest filled with toys. At the top lay wooden Bartholomew dolls. My youngest sister enjoyed playing with the same wooden dolls my aunt gifted her when she returned from Bartholomew’s Fair in London last year.

“This must be the bedchamber of Lady Bramwell’s daughters.”

Mistress Walden nodded. “Presently, they are elsewhere in the house, busy with their studies, and are not to be disturbed.”

 “Do they conduct their studies in the library?”

She didn’t utter a response but shook her head no and proceeded to close the door. Before she did, I looked at the sampler on the wall near the door. One sentence, beautifully stitched, read, ‘Reverence thy father and mother as nature requires.’ Alas, I thought, how sad for Lady Bramwell’s young daughters that their father was no longer with them. Oh, how the plaintive

cries of my sisters and mine would have pierced the air if we, too, had lost our dear father; such a dreadful thought caused me to shudder.

The first stop on the house tour was the magnificent Great Chamber. Mistress Walden dubbed it the crown jewel of the house, reserved for formal meals and the center of entertainment for Lady Bramwell’s family and their guests. The room’s rich décor was a feast for the eyes. The walls were made of oak wood, gilded with real gold, and topped with a ceiling of red and white diamond-shaped tiles.  

I bent to touch the floor and was surprised it wasn’t cold. “How deceptive. It’s not a marble floor.”

“Merely a trick, borrowed from our queen’s father, the great Henry. He had the oak floors at Hampton Court covered with plaster and painted to resemble marble.”

A large medallion over the fireplace attracted me. For it told a story with characters familiar to me. In the middle of the idyllic scene set in the woods was a young man dressed in ancient clothing playing the lyre, surrounded by nine women. “Look here,” I said, “what a lovely depiction of Orpheus and the nine muses.”

Mistress Walden looked with equal adoration. “I, too, enjoy gazing upon this scene, for I love music and dancing. Orpheus could charm all living things with his music.”

Merry thoughts of this past summer spent with William reading tales about Orpheus elicited a warm smile. "Aye. When the followers of Dionysus threw stones at Orpheus whilst he played, the stones deliberately missed their mark, so enchanting was his playing of the lute.”

“Is it not a fitting image then to hang in this great room, where music and dancing occur on special occasions?"

“Indeed, Mistress Walden, this room calls out for much merriment.” And then to my pleasant surprise, she moved to the center of the room, whereupon she gracefully executed four hops and one leap. I clapped in delight. “Bravo, Mistress Walden.”

She beamed. “The Gillard is Queen Elizabeth’s favorite dance. Would you like to try?”

Marry! I couldn’t believe my ears. “Most certainly,” and bounded over to her.

She took my hand and led me through the steps she had just performed. We giggled as I faltered on the third hop. But she was most patient in repeating the steps, and after two tries, I finally got it right.  I playfully curtsied to her when we completed the last step of the dance. She rested her hand on my shoulder, “Well done, Isabella.”

Her amiable manner convinced me I could ask her anything about Lady Bramwell and the house, and she wouldn’t think me impertinent. “Mistress Walden, will we visit the master library on our tour?”

Her countenance turned solemn. “Lady Bramwell has kept the library locked since her husband died, and only she has the key." 

My heart sank. Looking down at the floor, I muttered, "Oh. I see."

 Sensing my disappointment, she added, "However, I can show you where it is. Would that help satisfy your curiosity?"

I mustered a weak smile and nodded. We descended a back staircase, the clanking of our heels on the stone steps filled the silence. At the first-floor gallery's far end, we stood before a thick oak door adorned with gilded moldings. A fitting décor for the treasure trove of books inside. My hand rested on the shield-shaped keyhole, and I gently slid my finger through it with a wistful smile.

"Have you ever been inside?”   

“Only once. Baron Bramwell had a sharp and curious mind. Whenever he traveled, he always returned with books and had managed to build an extensive collection.”

 “And no one except Lady Bramwell can enter?” I asked, hoping to hear a different answer this time.

“There is one other who makes frequent use of the library. Lady Bramwell's young nephew."

 "Nephew?" My curiosity heightened. "How old is he?"

  "He is five years younger than me – twenty-one now and a law student at the Inns of Court.”

"And his name, Mistress Walden?"

“Robert Barrington.”

I whispered his name under my breath, stressing every syllable to commit it to memory. That night I wrote to my cousin William who has served me well as friend and tutor.

To my dear cousin,

I remember well your words the day we parted at the ruins of Nantwich castle. 'Let's hope, Izzy,' you said, 'that your baroness will be forward-thinking. I hear tell there are some who allow their

maidservants who can read access to their libraries.' Alas, William, Lady Bramwell is not one of them. She forbids my entry into her husband's library, which I hear has a collection as great as those you have seen. I can't believe my expectation of Lady Bramwell was so misguided. I was sure that in her position as baroness, she mingled with courtiers and ladies of Queen Elizabeth's court and would appreciate the ancient classics with their tales of adventure and romance, as does our fair queen. Instead, she offers me her dreary collection of books that would only delight my mother. I fear that my progress with you in reading and writing will be stunted without access to books that will sharpen my mind. But all is not lost. I might have found a way into the locked library, which rests upon a young gentleman and law student, Robert Barrington, Lady Bramwell's nephew. I tell you now – I intend to have my ears attuned for the utterance of

his name the next time he comes to visit his aunt. For now, I bid you a hearty farewell. From Lady Bramwell's house in the Strand, London, the twenty-second day of September 1567. Your assured loving cousin, Izzy.